


34 Days

by thistidalwave



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sad Jack Zimmermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3365801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There were the 34 days in the summer of 2009, between winning the Memorial Cup and the NHL Entry Draft in Montreal, where things were perfect. Who wouldn’t want that back? </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	34 Days

**Author's Note:**

> or, no one asked for this many words abt Kent really wanting to kiss Jack, but here you go anyway.  
> or, breaking news to literally no one: Kent Parson belongs in a trash can.  
> or, "why?" you ask. "[because,](http://41.media.tumblr.com/ca2bf218e9a8e90fd1d8687ad4bc4bcd/tumblr_nj0xpkce4G1szaospo2_500.jpg)" i respond. 
> 
> to experience joy, watch these [two](http://www.mastercardmemorialcup.ca/video/42862) [videos](http://www.mastercardmemorialcup.ca/video/32936) of bb hockey players winning the Memorial Cup that I defo cried over and then shamelessly stole from for the first scene.
> 
> thx to [Lily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham), Becca, and [Calley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bitnotgood) for the insight and encouragement and putting up with me capslocking pain at them. xoxo.
> 
> there is an accompanying mix for this fic [here](http://8tracks.com/thistidalwave/i-may-be-ace-but-you-were-the-king).
> 
> **Warning** for anxiety and substance abuse (alcohol [on-screen]/prescription medication [off-screen]).

_day 1_

The arena is deafening, people still cheering in the bleachers and the team doing the same on the ice, and Kent has to lean close to the post-game interviewer to hear what he’s asking. Jack is pressed up along his side, also trying his best to get closer to the interviewer, and Kent feels like he's on top of the world. 

“How does it feel to be here? Is it everything you dreamed of when you first started in the league?” 

“Oh, yeah, it’s just amazing,” Kent says. He thinks his face might split apart, he’s grinning so hard. “We worked so hard to get here and to win the cup, and the feeling of knowing that we made it is just unbelievable, man.”

Jack is nodding along beside him. “It’s indescribable.” 

“You two were truly a force to be reckoned with out there; you assisted each other on nearly all your goals, and you just kept making them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent says without waiting for the actual question, slinging his arm around Jack’s shoulders and tugging him in. “We’re just so competitive that we both have to get a point whenever either of us gets one. We’re not happy otherwise.”

Kent can practically see the eyeroll in Jack’s words when he jumps in. “Of course, we’re happy whenever anyone on the team gets a point, and we’re proud that we could help bring the team to victory.” 

“Right, of course, but it must be so much sweeter when it’s a Zimmermann-and-Parson led effort!” The interviewer laughs at himself, then adds, “And not many guys get to end their junior career with winning the final game, but that’s reality for both of you! Have you had a chance to think about that?” 

“It’s incredible,” Jack says, “but we didn’t really come into the game thinking about it being our last one, we just came in knowing that we had to do everything we could to help this team win.”

“And we did! We’re the champions, baby!” Kent declares, throwing both his hands up in the air. Jack grins at him, wide and bright, and thank God the interviewer dismisses them by telling them to go enjoy it, because Kent is ready to help Jack pour so much celebratory beer down his throat and then chase it with his tongue later. Jack _deserves_ the blowjob of his life for that slap shot into the back of the net in the third period. Honestly, Kent deserves the same for his amazing feats of hockey during this game. It doesn’t really matter which shot Jack wants to dedicate it to. They scored all those goals together, anyway. 

 

_day 3_

Kent isn’t even sure if this is the third or the sixth party he’s been to in the past few days. It all just feels like one continuous celebration, elation constantly bubbling like too much champagne in Kent’s veins. He gets distracted cheering on one of the boys’ girlfriends as she does a kegstand, and when he looks around for Jack again, he finds him sitting in a chair by himself, doing that thing he does where he stares blankly at nothing in particular. 

Kent decides to bring him back to Earth by sitting on his lap. Jack starts and then grins at him. “Sup, Zimms?” Kent asks, shifting around in an attempt to get comfortable. 

Jack sets his hand on Kent’s hip, his arm draped across Kent’s lower back, and Kent relaxes into it. “We won!” Jack says, their customary response to anyone asking what’s up since it happened.

Kent laughs, the joy and incredulousness hitting him all over again. “Fuck yeah we did,” he says. He steals Jack’s cup out of his hand and sips from it. He immediately regrets it. “Jesus, what’s _in_ that?” 

“My drink, not yours,” Jack says, taking the cup back. “That’s what you get for not keeping your hands to yourself.” 

“Whatever, dude, that shit is gross,” Kent says, washing the taste out of his mouth with his own perfectly good beer. He lowers his voice to add, “And _please_ , as if you want me to keep my hands to myself.” He punctuates the statement by putting his arm around Jack’s shoulders and leaning in close enough for their foreheads to touch before turning into him and sliding his other hand down Jack’s side. Kent smirks when Jack closes his eyes and leans into it. 

He pulls away, though, because they’re in a room full of people, and who knows who could be armed with a camera. Kent is almost drunk and happy enough to not care, but not quite. 

“Hey, Parse! Jack!” Ponomarev waves at them, the camera clutched in his hand proving Kent’s thoughts correct. “Smile!”

Kent throws up a peace sign and grins wide. Jack smiles, too, that same stupid smile that gets Kent right in the gut every time, and as soon as Ponomarev inspects the picture and flashes them a thumbs up, Kent drags Jack up off the chair. Jack stumbles a little and throws his arm over Kent’s shoulders, letting him guide them to the closest empty room with a door 

Jack kisses him as soon as the door closes, desperate for it like it’s not half of what they’ve been doing since they lifted the Memorial Cup. Kent understands. Jack tastes like glory every time Kent kisses him, and Kent doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.

 

_day 5_

It’s been too long since Kent last saw Jack. Sure, it hasn’t even been forty-eight hours, but after weeks of spending almost every waking moment together (and some sleeping moments, too), plus a few days of non-stop celebrating, Kent thinks he’s allowed to miss Jack’s stupid face. He’d tried to convince Jack to skip school, but Jack had looked determined when he said he’d already missed too much, and Kent knows better than to argue with that expression. 

It’s still fucking stupid, though. If he’d just done a distance ed program like Kent is, they wouldn’t be having this problem. 

The problem is mainly that Kent is bored. Normally they would have practice today, so Kent would see Jack then, but they don’t have practice anymore. That’s probably half the reason Kent is so thrown—his routine is all fucked without hockey.

He glances at the clock and sighs. He’s done all the work that’s going to get done today, and yet it’s still not late enough for Jack to be out of school. Kent texts Jack anyway. _Hang after ur done school?_

The reply is surprisingly prompt. _Ya. Meet at the park?_

_Ok_ , Kent sends back. _u naughty boy, r u txting in class?_

Jack doesn’t respond. Kent takes that as a yes. 

By the park Jack means the playground that marks the center point between two neighborhoods in town. It’s almost always deserted, and it has a pretty sick play structure with a tiny roof you’re not _actually_ supposed to climb on top of. It’s there that Kent is perched when Jack shows up. Kent watches him look around for a good minute before he calls out his name. “Up here, loser,” he adds. 

Jack starts and looks up, squinting against the sun. “Should’ve known,” he says, ditching his bag and climbing up. Kent watches appreciatively as he navigates the climb with ease, thinking vaguely that there’s something different about Jack today, and he laughs as Jack carefully scoots over to Kent. “Be quiet,” Jack says, settling next to him. “See how you like it when I fall off.”

“You’d probably take me down with you,” Kent says. “How was school?”

Jack shrugs. “School. I’m actually still ahead in most of my classes. Too much work in those packets my teachers made up for me.”

“So you _could_ have skipped! Why don’t you ever listen to my good ideas, Zimms?” 

“Because you never have any,” Jack says. His tone is serious, but Kent can see the smile he’s repressing. 

“Fuck off, all my ideas are good and you know it,” Kent says. “Hey!” He prods at Jack’s cheek, suddenly realizing what it is that’s different about him. “You finally got rid of the playoff beard.”

Jack snorts and bats Kent’s hand away. “If a beard is what you want to call it, yeah.”

“Don’t knock the beard, I’m mourning it,” Kent says. “At least your hair is still glorious.” He shoves his hand in Jack’s curls to mess them up, and from there it’s just easy to pull Jack in and kiss him. Jack kisses back right away, soft and teasing, and Kent is trying to get him to open up more when he pulls away.

“We should probably not do this while we’re on display to the entire world,” Jack says.

“The entire world?” Kent repeats. “You mean the entire population of Earth that’s shoved their way into this tiny park?”

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” Jack says. 

Kent sighs, because he does. “Come on, then,” he says, shuffling over to the edge of the roof and eyeing the distance to the ground. He deems it safe enough and jumps down, and then he waits while Jack takes the slow, boring climbing route. Kent grabs Jack’s hand when he’s got both feet on the ground and tugs him in. “Is this good enough, or do we have to crawl underneath something?” 

“We could always go inside,” Jack says in a tone that suggests he knows what Kent is going to say to that. He’s right, because Kent is already rolling his eyes before Jack finishes his sentence. 

“Boring,” he says, backing Jack into the side of the play structure. He lets his weight rest on Jack, their legs slotted together, and smirks when Jack slips his hands into the back pockets of Kent’s jeans. “There’s no one here, it’s cool.”

He kisses Jack to punctuate the statement, and this time Jack deepens the kiss right away. Kent can feel Jack relaxing into it, and he can’t help but feel proud of himself, as ever, for getting Jack to loosen up. It was a tough ride to get here, but Kent chose this, and he’s always been a pretty good decision maker.

“You know what I _don’t_ miss about your playoff beard?” Kent asks.

“Hmmm?” Jack asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Beard burn,” Kent says, and when Jack laughs, Kent catches it in his mouth. 

 

_day 8_

They spend Friday and Saturday partying with the team again—a few of them have already gone home, but everyone who’s left is still on a high that’s best accompanied by loud music and drinking. On Sunday Kent wakes up with a mild headache behind his eyes, nothing that some Advil and breakfast can’t do away with. He stands in the kitchen and stares out the window while he drinks his coffee. It looks like the perfect late spring day, the sun bright and a breeze rustling through the trees, and when Kent goes to his computer to check the weather, he discovers that it’s only supposed to get warmer.

He calls Jack. “We should go out to the lake,” he says without preamble.

“Now?” Jack asks. 

“Yeah, man. We can pack up a bunch of food and shit, make it an all-day event."

"Are we inviting any of the other guys?” 

Kent hesitates, then shrugs even though Jack can’t see it. “Nah. Just you and me.” Jack doesn’t protest.

They take Kent’s car, a cooler and a bunch of towels shoved in the backseat, and as soon as they get there, Kent kicks off his sandals and shoves his feet into the sand. The beach is nearly deserted, and it’s only just getting warmed by the sun, most of the sand cool against Kent’s skin. Kent looks at the water speculatively. 

“You think that water is cold?” he asks. 

“Probably pretty freezing, yeah,” Jack says, coming up to stand beside Kent. 

“Should we test it?” Kent looks sidelong at Jack. 

Jack frowns. “It’d be better if we waited until the afternoon. Be easier to warm up after.” 

“Oh, really,” Kent says, raising an eyebrow. “I thought your thick Canadian skin was impervious to the cold.” 

Jack looks like he knows Kent is riling him up, but it works, so whatever. “I’ll show you thick skin,” Jack says, tugging off his t-shirt. He graciously waits for Kent to do the same before shoving him down the beach to the water. Kent jumps when he gets his feet in the water and dances backward, but Jack pushes him forward again. “Come on, don’t wimp out.”

“Fuck you,” Kent says. “Run in on the count of three?” 

Jack nods determinedly, and Kent counts down. They throw themselves in with a huge splash when he says three, and it’s _fucking cold_. Kent feels like a thousand tiny icicles just stabbed their way into his skin. Jack emerges, shaking water out of his hair and clearly pretending he’s not shivering. Kent shakes his head and pulls Jack back onto the beach before he can decide proving he has thick skin means staying in there.

“Stupid idea,” Jack says as they’re retrieving towels. 

“Fucking great idea,” Kent counters, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. “Come here.” He pulls Jack in by the hips and wraps his arms around him. 

Jack hugs back after a second, draping his own towel around both of them. “Body heat?” he says, sounding slightly uncertain.

“That’s the idea,” Kent says, perfectly willing to let his desire to hug Jack be all about practicality. It _is_ warm after the first minute, anyway. 

They take up residence at one of the picnic tables, spreading their shit across it, and play card games until it gets so competitive that Kent throws down his cards and tackles Jack into the sand instead. 

“You’re a liar and a cheat and should be ashamed,” Kent says when he’s got Jack pinned, Kent straddling his waist. 

“Have you ever considered the idea that you just _suck_?” Jack asks, grinning, and _oh_ , he’s asking for it now. 

Jack ends up with sand shoved down his shorts, and Kent ends up shoved into the water, but they’re both smiling. The water is still cold as fuck, but Kent convinces Jack to get in anyway, and they swim out far enough that Kent is pretty sure they’re not recognizable from shore—if there were even people to see them—before he swims over to Jack and kisses him. He pushes away after a moment and says, “Catch me if you can.” Jack is _such_ a sucker for a challenge, and this is a game that Kent wins either way.

The sand is hot in the afternoon sun when they get out of the water this time, and Kent lies down in it and then rolls for good measure. “I’m a sugar donut,” he tells Jack, lifting a sand-coated arm like proof.

“Probably don’t taste as good,” Jack says, standing over Kent so that he both blocks the sun and drips water on him like the fucking asshole he is. 

“I’ll show you how good I can taste,” Kent mutters, about to pull Jack down into the sand with him, but Jack wisely backs away just in time.

“Concession stand just opened, I think,” Jack says, squinting across the beach. 

Kent rinses most of the sand off before they go over to the concession stand and have a lovely chat with the woman working. She clearly doesn’t want to be there and complains at length about even reduced hours starting too early in the season. She offers them half off by the time they’re done talking, though, because Kent is just _that_ charming. Jack pays full price anyway. 

There’s a campground just off the beach, and they wander around it with their bags of half-melted candy. Kent’s fingers are sticky with sour cherry sugar when he wraps them around Jack’s wrist and leads him into a patch of trees. He pushes Jack gently against one of the trees and leans up to kiss him. He tastes like the stupid blue whales he’s obsessed with, and Kent chases it with his tongue until he can’t taste anything but Jack. 

Jack sucks on Kent’s bottom lip, making him a bit lightheaded, and then pulls away to comment, “Cherry.” 

“Yeah, loser,” Kent says, unable to make it sound anything but fond, “that’s what I was eating.” 

Jack kisses him again, and Kent feels warm all the way down to his toes, despite the cool breeze in the shade. 

If winning the Memorial Cup hadn’t been the perfect start to the summer, Kent thinks, then this day would have nailed it, hands down. 

 

_day 10_

Tuesday evening they hit the 7/11 for slushes. This requires an entire ritual of wandering up and down the aisles, making fun of the names of candy and trying to figure out what the strange trinkets covered in the dust of the years they’ve been sitting on the shelves are for. 

“Who would buy any of this?” Kent asks for what must be the thousandth time. 

Jack furrows his brow in thought just like he always does. “Somebody,” he says finally, which is not nearly as good as the ridiculous answers he usually comes up with. Once he’d spun a tale about a rundown trucker and an old lady at a reststop that had been so funny Kent had knocked over an entire rack of chips laughing at it. The cashier had not been happy with them that day.

“That all you got?” Kent asks. Jack shrugs, and Kent huffs at him. “Maybe when we’re in the NHL I’ll be the one who buys stupid shit from gas stations. Something from every city I travel to, y’know? Money to blow and all that.” 

He expects Jack to laugh, maybe agree, but Jack does neither. Instead, he swallows audibly and then says, “Should really invest your money.” It’s clearly an attempt at a chirp that falls horribly flat, something that Kent hasn’t heard from Jack in a while.

“Okay,” Kent says decisively, “you’re clearly off your game tonight. Let’s get some sugar in you, yeah?”

They both get large slushes—Kent fills his with all the fruity flavors in the order of the rainbow, and Jack gets straight up blue raspberry, as ever. There are some things you can always count on, Kent thinks later, when he’s licking the taste out of Jack's mouth, and Jack’s commitment to the blue-stained-mouth life is one of them. 

 

_day 13_

Kent leans against his car and waits, fidgeting with his keys for lack of anything else to do with his hands. The bell signaling the start of lunch hour had rung a good five minutes ago. There’s been a steady stream of high schoolers walking past him since, but it’s starting to taper off now. Kent knows that Jack doesn’t usually stay at school for lunch, but it would be typical of him to change his routine the one day Kent tries to surprise him.

It would be just as typical for him to stay late after class to ask a question or something, too, so Kent isn’t worrying too much yet. Sure enough, it’s only another minute before he spots Jack walking out the doors, head down. 

Kent waits for Jack to notice him, but he ends up having to call out his name when it looks like Jack is about to walk right past him. He barely has to raise his voice for Jack to hear him.

Jack’s head snaps up. “Parse,” he says. “What are you doing here?” 

Kent shrugs nonchalantly. “Want to go for lunch? Hang out after?” 

Jack looks amused. “I do have to go to afternoon classes,” he points out. 

“Nah,” Kent says. “It’s Friday, dude. Live a little.”

“I have finals soon,” Jack says. 

“All the more reason,” Kent insists. “Besides, you can’t be doing much more than review right now. I’ll study with you if you really want, I’m already done with my shit.” 

Jack is pretty much persuaded, Kent can tell by the set of his jaw. He steps to the side and presents the car door to Jack with a flourish because he knows it’ll make Jack laugh. He’s not disappointed. 

“Fine, fine,” Jack says. “Just let me run back inside and get my stuff.”

“Sure,” Kent says. “I’ll be here waiting.” 

He gets in the car to wait and starts the engine. He feels a little like he’s driving a getaway car, which is ridiculous but fun to imagine. He and Jack are always leaving people in the dust; he’s pretty confident they’d be the same in a career as criminals. 

“You know,” Kent says as he pulls away from the curb after Jack has gotten in the car and is throwing his backpack into the backseat, “school’s not going to matter once you’re in the NHL.”

Jack is giving him a tired look when Kent glances over. “Are you already working on convincing me we don’t need to study later?” 

“No,” Kent says honestly, though he wouldn’t complain if they didn’t. “It’s just true. Not gonna need to know history or whatever the fuck in order to score goals.” 

Jack doesn’t answer for so long that when he says, “True,” quietly, Kent almost doesn’t remember what he’s responding to. 

 

_day 15_

Kent is pretty sure that hitting up the lake every Sunday is becoming a thing for him and Jack. Jack pausing with his hand on the car door handle when Kent is dropping him off at home, looking uncertain and then determined as he asks Kent to come in, though—that’s new, but Kent is willing to roll with it.

They’re in the basement now, sitting on the couch with a pile of blankets, because it’s freezing down here. There’s a movie on the TV, one of those old action flicks that The Movie Network is always playing, and Jack is steadily picking at a bowl of popcorn. Kent would eat the popcorn, too, but he’s too cozy warm inside the blankets to want to reach for any. 

He thinks distantly that he probably got too much sun today and that’s why he’s feeling so tired and lethargic. He prods at his arm and watches as the white marks he left behind slowly fill back in with livid pink. Ugh, sunburn. 

“You okay?” Jack asks, glancing at him. 

Kent shrugs. “Sunburnt,” he says. 

Jack’s eyebrows furrow with concern. “You need aloe vera or something?” he asks, making to get up. “I think we’ve—”

Kent catches Jack’s arm before he can get too far and pulls him firmly back down. “Stay here,” he says. “You’re warm.” 

“Okay,” Jack says. He stays sitting right where he is, like he’s taking Kent overly seriously, not even moving when Kent makes himself comfortable leaning against him. He’s a solid presence next to Kent, and the movie’s volume is low enough to slip into the background. The smell of the coconut sunscreen and bug spray Jack had covered himself in earlier is still faintly clinging to him, and it’s weirdly nice for Kent to just lie here with his eyes closed and breathe. 

He can feel himself drifting off, and he automatically resists at first, forcing his eyes back open and staring at the TV. He hates to sleep in front of other people when they’re awake; it makes him feel too exposed and vulnerable. The flickering of the light from the TV lulls him again almost right away, though, and Kent gives in. He’ll be okay here. Jack’s got him. 

 

_day 17_

By his own admission, Jack should be studying for his last final exam, but instead he rounds up a group of people to play street hockey with. It’s a mish-mash of the few members of the team who still haven’t left and their friends, with a few neighborhood kids who wander over to join after school gets out. It’s genuinely fun, just casually hitting the bright orange ball that’s serving as their puck around, chasing after their wide shots and teaming up to move the net out of the road when a car wants to pass by.

People trickle away as steadily as they trickled in, though, and by the early evening everyone except Kent and Jack have gone inside for supper. A few of them had promised to come back, but Kent isn’t hoping they’ll rush. 

He takes aim and shoots the ball past where Jack is fiddling with the edge of the net where it’s come detached from the frame. Jack turns around and gives him an exasperated look. “I’m trying to fix this,” he says.

“Why?” Kent asks. “It’s hopeless, dude. It’ll just be wrecked again as soon as we start playing.” 

Jack sighs and steps back. “I thought it was worth a shot, but you’re probably right.” 

“Hell yeah,” Kent says. “I usually am.” 

Jack picks up his stick and one of the pucks from on top of the net. “One on one?” he asks.

“You’re on,” Kent says. 

They do a mock faceoff, and even as he fights Jack for the puck, Kent starts thinking about how soon this is going to be their reality. Not this exactly—he’s pretty sure nothing could replicate the sunshine and ease of a few hours of street hockey—but the competition. They’ve always been a duo, finding each other’s passes and crushing their opponents with practiced ease, and it’s weird to know that they’ll more than likely be on opposite sides of the ice.

Kent manages to sneak a shot past Jack, right into the back of the net, and he fist pumps. It’s strange like it’s never been before in scrimmages that Jack looks annoyed instead of celebrating with Kent, and Kent really, really needs to stop thinking about this. It’s not that big of a deal. 

“Come on, Zimms, you can be better than that,” Kent says flippantly, grinning. 

Jack looks determined as he sets them up to face off again. “I’ll show you better, Parson,” he says. 

“Bring it,” Kent shoots back. 

 

_day 21_

Kent frowns down at his phone and sends another text to Jack. _u up for video games, dude??_

Jack has been being remarkably slow to text back. At first Kent had thought it was just because he was sleeping in, but it’s past noon now, and Jack is one of those people who is always up in the morning hours. So far all he’s said is _Morning_ in reply to Kent’s bored texts about the Saturday morning cartoons he’s been watching.

He doesn’t respond within ten minutes, so Kent tries calling him. He doesn’t pick up, and Kent frowns for so long when the automated voicemail recording picks up that he probably accidentally leaves a hangup message. 

He decides to just go over there, because there’s only so much Family Channel he can stand to watch in a day. Jack’s billet mother doesn’t look surprised to see Kent at the door and ushers him to Jack’s room without delay. “I think he’s having a bit of a lazy day,” she tells him quietly. “He’ll be happy to see you, though.” Kent thanks her.

Jack is curled up on his bed facing the door when Kent looks in, and he sits up as Kent walks in and shuts the door behind him. 

“I didn’t know you were coming over,” Jack says. His tone is so flat that Kent can’t tell whether he’s angry or happy about it.

Kent shrugs. “You weren’t answering my texts. What’s up?” He settles himself on the edge of the bed and tries not to be offended when Jack shifts away from him.

“I dunno,” Jack says. 

“You don’t… know,” Kent repeats. Jack shrugs and nods. “Well, I wanted to know if you wanted to play Xbox or something. You didn’t answer my text.”

“I think,” Jack says slowly, “that I’d rather…” 

Kent waits for him to finish his sentence, but he just rubs at his eyes with one hand and doesn’t. He looks exhausted. “Is this one of your things?” Kent asks, suspicious. “Have you taken your meds?”

“Yeah, I took them,” Jack says defensively. 

“Then what the fuck, dude?” 

Jack shrugs and won’t meet Kent’s eyes. They sit in silence for a long time. Kent gets tired of looking at Jack when Jack won’t look back, so he stares at the dust floating in the patch of sun coming through Jack’s window and wants to punch something. “You should probably go,” Jack says eventually.

Kent stands. “Fine, if that’s what you really want.” He pauses, but Jack doesn’t move or say anything, so Kent heads for the door. 

“Kent,” Jack says when Kent is almost out the door. Kent turns around, hoping for Jack to take it back. “I’ll be better tomorrow, okay? The lake, right?” 

“Yeah, whatever, Jack,” Kent says. He shuts the door behind him and says a cursory goodbye to Jack’s billet mother. 

Outside the air is stifling, a smotheringly hot contrast to the cold air-conditioned inside of Jack’s room, and Kent feels like he might choke on it. This isn’t a big deal, really, probably not the personal affront that Kent feels like it is, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t understand why Jack would want to blow him off, especially when… it’s not like they have a lot of time.

Whatever. Kent shakes it off and starts walking home. Kent has other friends. He can call one of them. 

 

_day 25_

Jack skips out on his grad ceremony. Kent had been all ready to put on his nice suit and suffer through the whole long and boring as fuck bullshit thing for him, but instead he shows up at Kent’s two hours before it’s supposed to start, clearly not dressed for a formal event. “They’ll mail me my diploma,” he says, shrugging, when Kent questions him. “It’s just a piece of paper, and there’s no one who wants to see me graduate, anyway.” 

Kent had thought that maybe Jack would want the experience, since he got to have the whole deal with actually having classmates and shit, but he’s not going to say anything. He grins and socks Jack in the shoulder instead. “The cup and the draft are enough excitement for your parents, hey?” 

Jack gives him the barest hint of a smile back. “Pretty much,” he agrees. “So, what do you want to do today instead?” 

Kent doesn’t really have any grand ideas, but it’s nice out, so they end up dragging a comforter into the backyard and spreading it out on the grass, one half in the sun and the other half in the shade cast by the house. Kent sprawls out on the sunny half, leaving the shade for Jack. He puts his ankle over Jack’s and leaves it there while he closes his eyes and soaks up the sun. It's easy to just lie here in comfortable silence, so entirely different from the crushing quiet in Jack's bedroom a few days ago. Jack had been fine the next day, just like he'd said he would be, and Kent doesn't understand why it can't always be just like this.

Eventually he gets too warm and rolls over so he’s pressed along Jack’s side. Jack’s skin feels cold compared to Kent’s, and Kent lays an experimental hand on Jack’s cheek.

“Warm,” Jack mumbles. He turns his head the slightest bit and presses a kiss to Kent’s palm before he even opens his eyes. It’s so feather light and intimate that Kent feels like his heart is a balloon someone let float up into the blue, blue sky. “Ugh, _so_ warm, get off me.” Jack shoves at Kent, and Kent laughs, the moment past.

“Nope,” he says, draping himself even farther over Jack’s body. 

“Kent, no, come on,” Jack complains, but he doesn’t move except to grab at Kent’s arm like maybe he was going to push him off and then got distracted. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” 

“Fuck you, you’re fucking _blessed_ right now,” Kent says. He bites at the edge of Jack’s jaw because it’s right there and is rewarded with Jack making the nicest surprised sound and tilting his chin to offer Kent the whole expanse of his neck. Kent idly wonders if he could leave a dark enough mark that it would still be there, even just barely, by the time they’re in Montreal. He thinks he could, if Jack let him, and then he tries it, because he’s always up for a challenge. 

Jack is clearly into it at first, making a pleased noise and tightening his grip on Kent’s arm, and then, as ever, he wises up to what Kent is doing and shies away. “Hey, stop with the leech impression,” he says, teasing.

Kent admires the red mark he’d left and mourns for what it could have been. “It’s not my fault you look pretty all marked up,” he says.

Jack flushes pink at that even as he rolls his eyes, and Kent grins wide. “You’re a nuisance,” Jack says, “and you’re _still_ smothering me. How does one person retain so much heat, anyway?” He tries to squirm out from under Kent, but Kent isn’t having it. If Jack really wanted him off, he’d be trying harder.

“Face it, you’re never getting rid of me,” Kent says.

Jack abruptly stops moving and huffs a sigh. “I _guess_ you can stay.”

Kent smirks. “Damn right I can.”

 

_day 27_

There’s never really a good chance for Kent and Jack to take their time with sex, and it’s not like things have changed now. It’s just that when Jack dragged Kent away from the bush party to where Kent had parked off in the trees and shoved him into the backseat of the car, Kent had decided he didn’t care. 

Almost every time has been hurried, practically a competition to see who could come faster, who could be quieter, who could make the other _not_ be quiet—and Kent loves that, really. It reminds him of being on the ice, of the rush of a well-executed play and knowing that Jack is right there with him. It’s just—they could have more. 

Someone could still come across them, and Kent’s not going to pretend he doesn’t get a slight thrill from that, but he’s not going to pretend to actually _care_ right now, either. Both of them are pretty wasted, and Jack is hot for it, shoving Kent’s pants down and getting his hand on Kent’s dick right away. Kent thrusts up into it almost involuntarily, gasping into Jack’s mouth. He’s been half-hard since Jack ate a marshmallow Kent roasted for him right out of Kent’s hand and licked the melted inside off Kent’s thumb, and fuck, Kent just wants this while he can have it. 

Jack is entirely in control, making quick work of most of their clothes. He seems determined to kiss every inch of skin he exposes, and he keeps asking Kent if it’s good for him, if the way he’s jacking Kent’s dick feels good, if there’s something Jack can do to make it better. 

“You’re fine, it’s good,” Kent says over and over. “It’s great, Zimms, yeah, just like that—” He closes his eyes and moans, and when he opens them again, Jack is smirking like he just tied a game with thirty seconds left in the third. 

Jack takes Kent’s hat off last, dropping it to the floor of the car and slowing down to press a kiss to Kent’s forehead, then his lips. It’s such a sweet contrast to everything else that Kent’s chest aches with it, and he curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck and turns the kiss dirty. When he pulls away, Jack’s lips are bright red and wet, and his eyes flutter shut when Kent slides his thumb along Jack’s bottom lip.

When he opens them again he looks determined, that fire in his eyes that always lights Kent up from the inside, and he’s pressing a packet of lube into Kent’s hand almost before Kent registers him even reaching to get it. He turns over, and Kent loses his breath at the sight of his legs spread, awkward but inviting nonetheless, his hands braced on the car door. 

“Come on,” Jack says when Kent doesn’t immediately move, too busy letting his eyes follow the dips of Jack’s back. “I want you to fuck me like this.” 

Kent is no one to deny a request like that, not when it falls from Jack’s lips like a plea, like nothing will be right in the world unless Kent listens to him. He takes his time, though, opening Jack up slowly until he’s pushing back onto Kent’s fingers and swearing. “Kent, _fuck_ , just—please, I’m ready, come the fuck _on_.” 

Kent considers it, he does, even rolling the condom on and getting ready to do it, the fingers of one hand wrapped around Jack’s shoulder and the other holding his hip. Jack presses back and the sudden slide of Kent’s dick against Jack’s ass is so good he has to close his eyes tight to hold on. 

And that’s not—he… it’s stupid, but Kent wants to see Jack’s face, wants to watch him make that stupid face he does when he comes, wants to make this last longer than a quick fumble. This isn’t going to be great sex no matter what they do—they’re in the back of a car, for fuck’s sake—but Kent wants to remember it anyway. 

“Turn around,” Kent says. 

“What?” Jack says, looking over his shoulder at Kent. 

“You heard me,” Kent says, all bravado, and is gratified when Jack does it. He makes a pretty picture like this, too, spread out like an offering, and Kent takes it, lines his cock up and starts pressing into Jack little by little. Jack groans and tries to shove himself down, but Kent backs off, makes him wait for it. Jack bites his bottom lip, and he makes tiny whimpering noises every time Kent moves until he’s balls deep, when he gasps out “ _Kent_ —” 

“Patience, Zimms,” Kent grits out from between his clenched teeth, and he leans in to kiss Jack, trapping Jack’s dick between them. Jack practically whines when their lips meet, and God, Kent wants to hear him make that noise over and over. 

He starts to move inside Jack, setting up a slow rhythm, and is rewarded by Jack gasping into Kent’s mouth and his fingernails digging into Kent’s back. “Just fu—” Jack cuts himself off when Kent thrusts hard. “ _Fuck_ me.”

“I am,” Kent says. He relishes how Jack is almost entirely red now and seems unable to stop making noise at every little touch way more than he would getting them both off right away. Apparently a desperate Jack is a noisy Jack. Kent wishes he’d known that sooner. 

Jack is beautiful like this. It seems a shame that it ever has to end, but despite Kent’s best efforts, he’s only human. He can feel himself getting close to the edge, and he finally gives in to Jack’s pleas, fucking him hard and sliding his hand on Jack’s dick at the same time. Jack comes with a shout, and Kent lets himself go as well, both of them shuddering against each other before collapsing entirely.

Kent recovers first and slides himself carefully out of Jack. Jack makes a noise as he does, clearly overstimulated, and when Kent lifts his head from where he’d buried it in Jack’s shoulder, Jack’s eyes are glassy and red-rimmed. There’s a tear track running down Jack’s cheek, and Kent follows it with his finger without thinking. wiping more tears from the hollows beneath Jack’s eyes. 

“Too many emotions for you, Zimms, or did you just get a buckle in an awkward place?” Kent asks. “Both?”

Jack shrugs slightly. “I’m fine,” he says. 

Kent shrugs back at him and moves to the other end of the seat, stretching out as much as he can. He picks his hat up from the floor of the car and spins it around his hand before putting it on. “Whatever you say,” he says, grinning at Jack.

Jack smiles back. There’s silence for a moment before Jack says, “You look ridiculous.”

Kent scoffs indignantly. “Fuck you,” he shoots back, “I look incredible.” 

 

_day 29_

They go out to the lake for the fourth (and last, but Kent’s not thinking about that) Sunday in a row. The beach has been steadily getting busier every week since that first time, and today it’s hard to even walk across without having to pick your way around sprawled out people, so Kent and Jack drive around the other side to the boat launch that no one uses anymore. There’s a rickety picnic table there, half the seat on one side broken clean off long ago, but it’s stable enough to sit on top of. 

Jack goes down to the edge of the water right away when they get there, but Kent stretches himself out on the table, leaning back on his hands and propping his ankles against the edge of the bench, and closes his eyes. It’s a properly hot summer day, but the table is mostly in the shade. Kent contemplates the merits of just plain old taking a nap here. Jack would probably join him if he asked.

Kent doesn’t bother calling for him, though, and he’s still in the same position when he feels the table move slightly. When he opens his eyes, Jack is sitting next to him, a newspaper in one hand. 

“Where did you get that?” Kent asks. 

“Brought it,” Jack says.

Kent rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I figured you didn’t fish it out of the lake. Should’ve asked why you’ve got it. Who gets their news from the actual newspaper anymore, old man?” 

Jack doesn’t even react to that, which is fair enough considering the number of times Kent has called him an old man. He unfurls the newspaper and clutches it with both hands. Kent tilts his head so he can read it; the front page headline says “NHL Draft, 1st Zimmermann or Parson?” Jack is frowning down at it, his shoulders slumped.

Kent sits up and scoots forward, draping his legs over Jack’s and leaning in to read the smaller print of the article. It’s pretty standard fare, the same rundown on their lives and their stats and their prospective teams that Kent’s read a hundred times before. He doesn’t know why it seems to be upsetting Jack so much. 

“I hate this,” Jack says. “I hate…” He trails off, looking lost. “Do you think—” He cuts himself off again, and Kent waits. 

When Jack doesn’t say anything, just keeps sitting there with that frown deepening every second, Kent leans back and puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder. He doesn’t know what Jack was trying to ask, but he thinks he gets the feeling anyway. 

“Me too, man, but it’s gonna be fine.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He’s been avoiding thinking about the future as much as possible, which isn’t all that hard for him. It’ll be what it’ll be, and no amount of wishing that they could go back or have more time will change what’s going to happen. “We play fucking great hockey,” Kent says finally, shrugging. “That’s always been enough.”

“Maybe,” Jack says. 

Kent snorts and punches Jack’s shoulder with the same hand he’d had rested there. “I think you mean yes,” he says, reaching for the newspaper and pulling it out of Jack’s hands. He tosses it on the ground and replaces it with his hand in Jack’s. He squeezes in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, and Jack squeezes back. The dark circles under his eyes are still betraying his lack of sleep, and he’s not smiling, but at least he’s not frowning anymore. 

 

_day 31_

Kent jerks out of sleep to the sound of his cell phone vibrating on his nightstand. He squints at his alarm clock as he fumbles for the phone and answers it. “‘lo?”

“Hey,” Jack says, sounding far too awake for the middle of the night. “Will you go for a run with me, please?”

Kent flops back onto his pillow and checks the time again just in case he saw it wrong the first time. He didn’t. “What the fuck, Jack. It’s three in the morning.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a minute. Kent closes his eyes and quickly opens them again when he can feel himself drifting off. “Please,” Jack repeats. 

“You’re insane,” Kent says. “It’s the fucking off-season, dude, get some rest.” 

“I was trying, but I just—” Jack lets out a gust of air right into the phone. “I… fuck, Kent, can you just—”

“Are you drunk?” Kent asks suspiciously. This stumbling over words and not finishing his sentences thing is something Kent undoubtedly associates with an intoxicated Jack. Jack doesn’t respond right away, and Kent is too tired for this. “I’m going back to sleep. You get to bed too, Zimms, God knows you could use the beauty sleep.” 

He hangs up before Jack can say anything else and falls asleep so quickly that when he wakes up mid-morning, he has to fish his phone out from where it had gotten lost in his blankets. He frowns at it and sends Jack a text. _Hey loser did u go 2 sleep??_

He doesn’t get a response for a good hour, which is reassuring. When he does, it says _Eventually. Ran around ur block and back home then passed out._

Kent’s heart catches in his throat. He hadn’t realized that Jack had been outside last night, fuck. If he had, he might’ve gotten up—he could have at least gone down and convinced Jack to come inside. He’s trying to work out if there’s a way to apologize when Jack texts him again. _Want 2 get breakfast?_

Kent smirks and decides to forget about apologizing. _U mean brunch? Ya, ok._

They meet at a diner, and Jack seems normal, if a little tired. Kent chirps him about it, but Jack just rolls his eyes and tells him to fuck off. If Kent had any lingering worries, they’re gone by the time Jack gets a mischievous look on his face just before coating Kent’s nose in whipped cream. Kent is too busy retaliating with the syrup to worry. 

 

_day 33_

They go out for ice cream on the last day before they have to be in Montreal. Jack picks the bench surrounded on three sides by trees for them to sit on when they take it to the park, and Kent isn’t about to protest. He’d gotten a cone of soft serve strawberry swirl, mostly so he could eat it as obscenely as possible to get a reaction out of Jack. It worked, too—Jack might have been playing it cool, but Kent could see his eyes tracking Kent’s tongue on the walk over. 

Jack had gotten his ice cream in a dish, which somehow makes it worse when Kent finds himself distracted by him licking his spoon. He’s probably not even trying, the fucker, but Kent can’t stop thinking about all the times he’s had that tongue in his mouth, tracing down his body, on his dick. They’re hardly appropriate thoughts for the middle of the park, and the way Jack smirks after he pulls the spoon out of his mouth makes Kent realize he’d fucking _known_.

“You jerk,” Kent says, shoving at Jack’s shoulder.

“What?” Jack asks innocently, widening his eyes, then cracks a smile. “Fair’s fair, asshole.”

“Ugh,” Kent huffs. 

Jack reaches out and runs his fingers along Kent’s skin at the edge of his collar. Kent tries not to shiver at his touch and fails. “Did you know you turn red here when you’re flustered?” 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Kent repeats, pushing Jack’s hand away.

“I like it,” Jack says, his voice low and soft.

Kent’s about to say something insulting, but the words die in his throat. The way Jack is looking at him, like he’s something precious, isn’t entirely new, but it feels different. Everything does, really, knowing that tomorrow their lives will change exponentially. Kent leans into Jack’s side instead, pressing his cheek into Jack’s shoulder when Jack puts his arm around him. He closes his eyes and tries to soak up the feeling of Jack right here, solid next to him. 

He opens them again when he feels Jack start to play with his hair. “Have I ever told you,” Jack says, looking fascinated, “how much I like these bits of your hair?” 

It’s the fucking cowlick, of course, the one part of his hair Kent can never get to cooperate no matter what he does. Jack smoothes it down and grins when it pops back up, and Kent scowls. It’s kind of nice, actually, Jack twirling Kent’s cowlick around his fingers and then letting it go to run his hand through Kent’s hair, but Kent can’t abide it. “No, fuck off,” he says, swatting at Jack’s hand.

Jack just goes back to it, though, and Kent has no choice but to grab Jack’s hand and thread their fingers together, holding Jack’s hand in their laps. Jack settles against him, and Kent can feel everywhere they’re touching like a live wire, from their pressed together knees to Jack’s cheek against the top of Kent’s head right down to the tips of their fingers. 

It feels like something is hanging between them the entire time they’re sitting there, drowning in the silence, and it’s still there later, when they linger at the end of the street where they have to part ways. The sun is only just sinking below the horizon, orange light dazzling behind Jack, and Kent’s chest clenches in a breathless and uncomfortable way that he doesn’t really care to think about. Jack reaches out and takes both of Kent’s hands loosely. Kent waits for him to say or do something, but Jack just studies Kent’s beat-up runners like he’s never seen them before.

It’s too much. Kent pulls Jack in for a kiss, but even the brief soft brush of their lips and the tiny sigh Jack lets out makes Kent feel like he just took a puck to the solar plexus. 

He wishes he knew why, because it’s not like there’s anything that could happen at the draft that would come as a surprise. They’re going to get to play NHL hockey, and Kent has high hopes that someday, sooner rather than later, they’ll even be on the same team again. Anybody would be lucky to have Zimmermann-and-Parson. 

Kent pulls his hands away from Jack’s and takes a step back. “See you later, loser,” he says.

“Later,” Jack says, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. Kent walks backward across the street, watching Jack, then waves once he’s on the other sidewalk. Jack waves back and turns to walk the other way. Kent does the same, and he doesn’t look back.

 

 

_day 35_

The first thing Kent sees when he wakes up is his brand new Aces jersey hanging on his closet door. He grins automatically and then feels sick. He closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to look at it anymore, but its image is already burned into his brain. 

There were seats next to him at the draft reserved for the Zimmermanns, and nobody ever sat in them. When Kent’s name was called first, and he put on the Aces jersey and smiled for the cameras, there was no Jack for him to hug when he got off stage. There was no Jack to cheer the loudest for when his name was called. 

There was no Jack anywhere, and Kent knows now that it’s because he’s lost it all. Hockey wasn’t enough, Kent wasn’t enough, and Jack slipped off the edge he’d been silently toeing all this time.

After the draft, Kent left numerous increasingly upset voicemails on Jack’s cell, and they hadn’t been returned until late last night—but it hadn’t been Jack calling him back, it had been Bob Zimmermann. 

He’d told Kent in a soft, calm tone that Jack had left the draft and been checked into a rehab facility after overdosing on his anxiety medication, and then his voice had caught with emotion when he’d asked, slowly and carefully, if Kent had noticed anything different about Jack lately that might help them. Kent had run over the past month in his head, but anything he thought of sounded stupid, and the silence stretched on for so long that Kent finally just said no. 

Bob had sighed and thanked him, and then, surprising Kent, had offered him congratulations. Kent had said thank you, but the words had tasted like dust in his mouth, and when he hung up, it was with the sinking realization that he was really on his own now.

Having had the entire night to think about it, Kent can think of a million and one things that were weird about Jack lately, and he feels stupid for never saying anything, for never offering Jack more than a pat on the shoulder and a reassurance that everything would be fine. Maybe if he had really taken notice, everything _would_ be fine. Maybe if he’d done something, Jack would have been right there next to him when he succeeded in everything they’d ever worked for. 

Maybe if Kent hadn’t failed Jack, he wouldn’t be looking back at the moment his name was called with the complete and total certainty that that was when the _'Zimmermann-and'_ cracked off his identity and he became Parson, full stop. 

Years later, he’s still not quite used to it.


End file.
